Selling Murder House

Chapter 8 (Continued)

Eventually, Paul swore under his breath and mumbled something about finding more painters' tape. When he got up to leave, I saw a bit of grey paint dripping onto the white wainscoting where Paul had been painting. I stood and wiped the dripping paint with the end of my t-shirt so it wouldn't dry. 

I look around the room. There was a box sitting atop the sheet-covered desk. Upon inspection, it was a box of books, the pink and purple ones that had previously covered the shelves. Alone and emboldened by privacy, I lifted one of the hard-covers out of the box. It felt sturdy in my hands, weighty and important, how old books feel. DOLLY'S DOLLHOUSE VOL. 4, I read. The title, author, and graphics had been imprinted directly into the thick hard cover, and the spine was imprinted with intricate gold swirls and flowers. I didn't need to see the name of the author to know who had written it, because on the cover front-and-center was a dollhouse, the kind that can open straight down the middle, can be prized apart so little hands can reach in and play. Through one of the dollhouse's larger windows, I could just make out the startling view of a single, large eye, peeking in through the other side. There was a subheading, etched in italics: "Dolly's imagination runs wild when the dolls come to life!"

I could see why Paul had said he didn't exactly fit the target demographic for his grandmother's books. When I heard footsteps approaching, I put the book back in its box and got back to work.

Paul came back with two beers bottles and a roll of blue painter's tape clutched in the crook of his arm. He handed me a bottle.

"Thanks," I said.

"I should be the one thanking you," he said.

"Let's be real," Paul said. "You're the one helping me paint, and you're the one helping me sell this old dump."

I shook my head and smiled. I was happy Paul had decided to break the ice.

"Trust me, I need this probably as much as you do," I said.

"The beer, or selling the house?" Paul said, smirking.

I laughed, a genuine belly laugh. It felt good. I could feel a bit of tension easing out of my shoulders.

"Both, I think," I said. "Equally."

We stood in silence for a moment, drinking our beers, but this time it wasn't suffocating. It was comfortable.

"Are you . . . alright?" Paul asked, tentatively. "I just mean. Because you've been a bit quiet today."

I nodded, and another wave of relief passed over me. He was worried I had been too quiet? After everything that had happened, he was worried about my wellbeing? I wanted to laugh.

"Yeah, I'm alright," I said, and I meant it. "I just . . . I really want to help you sell this house, but I want to be upfront with you. I've never sold a house before. I honestly don't know what I'm doing."

The words came out like vomit, all at once and all of a sudden. Once I'd started, I couldn't stop.

"I'm in a little bit of trouble. With work. With money," I said.

And then I told him everything. About the corporate card, about my car, about Winnie's injury, about Leo's drunken advances, about how all of this might be coming down on my head if I didn't sell this house. When I'd finished unloading, when all the words had been said, I choked out a sob, and then Paul's arms were around me. I enjoyed the warmth of his embrace, let my tears soak into his shirt sleeves for just a moment before reality hit me and I stepped away.

"I'm sorry," I said. "That was incredibly, incredibly unprofessional. I shouldn't have unloaded that on you. Especially not with all that you're dealing with--"

"Stop, stop," Paul interjected. "It's alright, I swear."

I shook my head. How the hell had I let myself break down like that, I wondered. I wiped my tears fiercely. I hadn't even been thinking about my problems. Actually, I realized, it was probably the first day in quite a while I hadn't been enveloped in fear and worry. I'd been too busy, all day long, enraptured in Paul's interview, replaying his answers in my head. Then I thought he was upset with me, and I was upset with him, despite my own scolding, for opening up to Tom and not for me.

What the hell was I doing? Was this my sick, emotionally-manipulative way of getting Paul to open up to me, by boldly opening up to him?

Paul was smiling at me, searching my eyes with his blue ones. There was a gentleness in his eyes, and I let them soothe me.

"Drink your beer," he said, finally.

I did.

While we waited for the first coat of paint to dry in the office, we worked upstairs to get it ready to paint. We moved furniture and laid down drop-cloths, then started taping the edges. I found myself in a bedroom and started clearing out the furniture, starting with the decor on the walls and the shelves. There were dolls, the porcelain ones like in the living room, all over the place, along with other toys; stuffed animals, coloring books, Barbies. I realized then, that it was a little girl's room. I hadn't realized at first, because, well, every room in the house looked like it belonged to a little girl.

Paul appeared in the doorway behind me.

"Hey, before you move anything," Paul said, momentarily startling me. "Sorry, didn't mean to sneak up on you. Anyway, Mary, I wanted to ask you. Any chance you'd let me leave this room untouched?"

He looked a little embarrassed for even suggesting it.

"It could be, you know, a nursery. Or a little girl's room," he said. "For the new family."

"Of course," I said, warming to the idea.

Then a thought struck me.

"Is this . . . Was this . . . their youngest daughter's bedroom?" I asked.

Paul nodded. "Erica's room. Yeah, I think so," he said. "I just think, it doesn't feel right to paint it, you know? She must've loved it. The pink walls and polka-dot curtains and everything."

"Were you close?" I asked.

"No," he said. "I hadn't seen her since she was practically a baby, at one of Maggie's annual gatherings."

I nodded.

"I think it's a great idea, Paul," I said.

Then we left the room and closed the door behind us.